Beginning to Heal
by Slash McSlash
Summary: When a case goes horribly wrong, Fin is left to wonder if acceptance is what he really wants at all. Munch/Fin slash. Deathfic.


**Disclaimer:** I obviously don't own Law and Order SVU. Honestly, people.

**A/N: **My first Law and Order fic! Yay! And it's not a happy one. Fin/Munch resides within, but nothing blatantly slashy. And I'm sorry if they're somewhat ooc, especially Olivia. I tried to get their characters down right.

Beginning to Heal

by

Norikio Na No Da

They had closed the case that day.

They had kicked through the rotting door of the derelict apartment building, and ran up the stairs one after the other with their guns drawn, watching each other's backs as any good partners should do. Just like any other case. Any other day. And they had hammered on the door of apartment B12 on the second floor, which was boarded up like the rest. They could hear the collective crying of the three missing children inside.

Fin had pounded on the door and shouted the typical, "NYPD! OPEN THE DOOR!" When there was no answer, he pounded harder. "WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE, TENNISON! OPEN UP!"

But Tennison _wasn't_ in there. Thinking back, Fin hated himself. He should have known. He should have known Tennison was expecting them.

There was a loud crack and a terrible, wet, popping noise. Fin whipped around, gun raised, just in time to see Munch lurch and drop. Another shot was fired, but Fin threw himself to the carpet and the bullet blew a hole in the wall instead. Fin shot back, but Tennison had disappeared around the corner, headed for the roof.

"Ah _shit. _Shit shit _shit."_ Fin set his gun down, and crawled over to where Munch lay on the floor, half-turned on his side. It was a chest wound, plain as day. His blue shirt was already saturated with blood.

"John," said Fin, gently turning him face up. Munch was alive, and seemingly conscious, but not quite lucid. His half-open eyes roamed dazedly. Fin drew his partner into his lap, the long gangly limbs hanging limp in his arms, the salt-and-pepper head lolling against his chest. "John. John, babe," he said, whispering the latter like it was a forbidden word. He'd never said it to him out of the sanctuary of their own shared apartment, but now that unspoken rule seemed petty and pointless. "John. It's okay, John. I gotcha. Come on, John."

Munch was too shocked and pained to focus on Fin or the repeated mantra of his name; he focused, instead, on trying to breathe, even though he was clearly suffering from a punctured lung, which made breathing near impossible.

Fin was suddenly aware of a flood of noise and commotion from the floor beneath them. The familiar, barking, authoritative voices of New York's finest, of Olivia and Elliot in particular, jerked him back to rational thinking. _Damn me, _he thought, realizing that his partner was bleeding out and he was doing nothing to help. Just sitting there saying "John" over and over and over again. He clamped one hand down hard just over the bullet wound, steeling himself against the gasp of pain from Munch.

"UP HERE!" he shouted. "SOMEBODY CALL A BUS!"

The commotion moved up the stairs. Elliot and Olivia, and a couple of unis Fin didn't have the clarity of mind to identify at the moment, skidded around the corner. All wearing Kevlar vests; of course, they had been alerted of the threat before arriving, whereas Munch and Fin had just been the poor saps first on the scene.

Elliot cursed. Olivia immediately moved to Fin's side and crouched down beside him.

"Where'd he go?" said Elliot with as much wrath as he could muster despite the loss of breath from sprinting up the stairs. All Fin could say was "roof", and Elliot took off running after the perp. Fin didn't hold out much hope for catching Tennison, but he didn't really care anymore.

Unis burst through the door to the aid of the children who were still wailing within the abandoned apartment.

"The bus is on its way here," said Olivia, taking off her jacket and folding it a few times rapidly. Fin lifted his hand just long enough for her to press the jacket down on Munch's bloody chest, and then he put his hand back, firm but gentle, like an anchor or a lifeline. Munch's eyelids, which had been sliding slowly shut, sprung open suddenly as if he had been delivered an electric jolt. He put his long, shaking hand on top of Fin's and slowly raised his eyes to meet his partner's.

"You heard her, John," said Fin in a tight voice. "Ambulance's coming. You don't have an excuse to give me any of those tragic lines I know you're cooking up."

Munch grinned weakly. But the blood on his teeth was a harsh reminder of how quickly his condition was worsening. Suddenly a terrible agony seemed to seize Munch's now-frail-seeming body and his chest heaved, hard. More blood—bright, angry red blood—gushed out of his mouth and out from under Olivia's jacket, staining the carpet and the front of Fin's shirt red. Fin tightened his grip desperately, but Munch lost his completely. With one last ragged exhale of breath, he slumped against Fin's chest and was gone.

& & &

Elliot had caught Tennison after all. He had to jump a three foot wide gap between two rooftops to do it, but he'd tackled him and—intentionally or not—knocked him unconscious. The ambulance that had been meant for Munch tended to him instead.

The kids he had kidnapped were fine. Well, Denny wasn't fine; she never would be after what he had done to her, but physically she would recover and hopefully, in time, she would heal psychologically as well. The other two, the younger ones, were scared but untouched.

Cragen had made Fin change his shirt almost immediately, because it was so unbearably macabre to see the stains of blood of one of his favorite, senior detectives on the shirt of one of his most broken, surviving detectives.

Now Fin sat at his desk with his head in his hands, trying to think. Or trying not to. He wasn't sure. Of this, of anything. All he knew was John Munch was dead, and that couldn't be, because that would mean Fin had lost _two_ partners in the line of duty, and what could he have possibly done in his life to deserve that?

_Think back,_ the vindictive little voice in his head told him, _and I'm sure you can think of something._

The door to Cragen's office opened, and Olivia and Elliot stepped out, still speaking in hushed tones with Cragen over their shoulders. Then they spotted Fin, sitting slumped at the desk, and fell silent. When they approached, Elliot just put his hand on his shoulder briefly and then walked away, out of the squad room. Olivia, however, rested her hip against the side of the desk and gave a mournful little sigh.

_Here it comes. She's gonna tell me she's sorry. _Fin knew how this went down. He'd been here before.

"Fin," she said. "God, I am so sorry."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

She went on. "I know…you and John…you were closer than a lot of partners are."

Fin snorted. She knew. Of course she knew. Olivia always was the perceptive one, the one who always knew everything. Even the things he himself hadn't known for so long, had only just realized a short time ago. They—he and John—had only been happy a little while.

She put her hand on top of his and squeezed it lightly. Right where Munch had squeezed it just hours ago, before he had choked up all that blood. And left him for good. Fin felt lightheaded and sat back heavily in his chair.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently.

"No, I don't want to talk about it!" He stood up abruptly. The world spun and he fell back instantly into the chair, so hard that it jumped back an inch with a squeak that startled the passing uni into dropping her paperwork everywhere.

Olivia looked concerned. Obviously. "Are you okay?"

"How okay can I be, Olivia?" Ah, there it was. Feeling slowly returning. Numbness was turning into hopelessness, or helplessness, or something in between the two. It was a feeling, nonetheless, and with it came a thousand images of his partner. John walking, John wearing that fedora, John kicking that trash can, John talking to him, explaining his crack-pot theories, John being paranoid, John looking so relieved when Fin survived the gunshot from the convenience store robbery, John sitting at the very desk Fin was sitting at now. John kissing him for the first time. John dying.

A couple of tears slipped hot and fast down Fin's cheeks.

Olivia wrapped her arms around him. "I know."

"You don't know."

"No," she said. "I guess not. Not like you do. But I'm gonna miss him, too, Fin. I miss him already."

"That's enough." Fin pulled away. "Stop talking like—like he's already—"

She frowned, her dark eyes wet with her own grief.

"He _is_ already dead, Fin."

He slammed his fist down on the desk. "I _know_ he's dead!"

"You've got to accept it."

Accepting was different than knowing.

Fin had known his son was gay for a time before he had really accepted it.

Fin had known he, _himself,_ had feelings for another man for an even longer time before he had accepted it. And now that man was gone and Fin just felt like they hadn't had enough time together. Maybe if he didn't accept it, not yet anyway, it would feel like they had longer…

But he knew he would have to return to that empty apartment and it would hit him sooner or later.

"He was just here, Olivia," he said brokenly. Her eyes softened again. "Just a little while ago, he was right here with us. I was happy and I didn't even know it."

She just watched him and waited.

He struggled with his thoughts for a moment. "If I had just…pushed him, or something…or known..." It was impossible. Impossible to convey with words what it felt like to know the death had been preventable. So brief, yet so irreversible. So close, yet so far.

"There was nothing you could do," Olivia said quietly.

These words meant little to Fin. But he nodded anyway. She was trying to help him, after all.

Gradually he became aware he was being watched across the squad room by Dr. Huang. He was considering them thoughtfully at a distance. When Fin looked up, Huang smiled sadly, and when Olivia spotted him too, he nodded his head and stepped back into his office. Deferring to her for the time being. Fin knew he would eventually have to see the squad psychiatrist, by his own volition or at the insistence of Cragen or the others. He would have to talk about this eventually.

But for now, he was just so very tired.

"Thanks, 'Livia," he said wearily. "I'm just…I'm gonna go back to—to my apartment."

It was clear she wasn't too keen on the idea. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Want me to send Elliot over? Or I could come over."

"No, Olivia." He stood up again, and this time he managed to stay on his feet. "I just wanna be alone."

"Alright. But—Fin?"

She stepped forward and embraced him again; he hesitantly hugged her back. And when she pulled away, and he walked away toward the squad room exit, he found Munch's glasses folded in his shirt pocket. He stopped and turned around to thank her, to express how much it really meant to him. Because it did, it said much more than any awkward words could have said. But she was gone.

The second he stepped into his apartment, he realized that alone was the last thing he wanted to be. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He would be alone if Elliot was here, or Olivia, or Huang, or Cragen, or anyone else except for someone who had died that afternoon. Even his estranged son would be little comfort to him now. So it seemed that alone was all he would ever be.

He threw himself down on the bed, on John's side, and pressed his face against the Munch-smelling pillow until it was soaked with tears. He didn't want to accept it. He just wanted to fall asleep on that pillow and in his dreams maybe think it was John, the real John, just for a little while, pretend the pillow was his partner in his arms. But he knew if he started to delude himself now, he would never be able to stop.

So he lay there and cried. Acceptance.

He didn't know it yet, but he had reluctantly begun to heal.

**FIN**


End file.
